Shiny New Boots
by NCR Ranger
Summary: He's lived. He's fought. Now, Marcus Stacker will live and fight again, but with a batch of new faces to do it alongside.
1. Chapter 1

UNSC _' Infinity '_

0900, shipboard clock.

Orbit over Earth, directly above Singapore.

* * *

Standing at parade rest, with his freshly( and throughly ) polished VZG7 combat boots planted solidly on the durasteel deck plating that covered every sqaure inch of Hangar bay, Master Sergeant Marcus Stacker watched the D79-TC Pelican as it flared in for a landing.

The jade-colored, ultra-streamlined craft's manuvering jets and thrusters rumbled and roared, remaining loud even though they'd been dialed back quite a bit from the power output they'd have needed to carry the hefty dropship all the way up from Earth's surface. Blazing a brilliant white, they smoothly settled all 64 of the Pelican's tons of onto its skids, with a barely audible, but nontheless deep, _thud_ of its formidable mass on steel.

Stacker's stance didn't falter. After 15+ full years of being in the UNSCMC ( United Nations Space Command Marine Corps ) he'd seen- and experieced- more Pelican landings than he could keep track of , even if he'd actually attempted to count them all.

Some had been smooth and textook, like this one. Others, had been the polar opposite; loud and violent crashes. The former had been organized and calm; the latter had been anything but.

_The Mombossa seawall. Dammned Scarab smacked us clear out of the sky. We came down so hard back there. I don't think I've been on a beach walk at all after that day._

_It wasn't even as random as a Jackal headshotting someone. It was a_ Pelican crash_. We weren't pilots or air crew; we had no control over what was about to happen to us.  
_

Like a wet sparking battery, the memory came, and then was gone. In those few seconds, though, a lot was recalled.

For a few seconds, Stacker saw, in his mind's eye, the crackling, furnace hot fires and buckled metal sheets, of that doomed Pelican that had nearly killed him. By some God sent miracle, it was the only crash of his career, but it had stuck with him. Trapped in the hold of the Pelican as it hurtled Earthward, ablaze and out of control, he'd felt utterly helpless.

The impact had shaken his body like a rag caught in a terrier's mouth; everying in sight had been obscured until he could get his bearings again. If anyone else had been screaming, or cussing, or both/ eitehr, he didn't hear them.

It'd been the most jarring moment of said career of his, rivaled by his very first encounter with getting caught under .50 caliber machine gun fire ( courtesy of an Innsurectionist cell, who Stacker _eventually_ had the satisfaction of taking out with a grenade ).

But, the real reason why Stacker didn't let himself think of that crash for more than a few seconds, was something else alltogether.

The only death of his squad- the _only_ man to die among it up till that point, in the _whole_ 25+ years of the conflict, which was undiniably another God sent miracle- had struck then and there. That it hadn't been his fault at all, with the COD being a out of control crash, didn't mean anything to the then-Gunnery Sergeant Stacker. He would not allow himself to admit that to himself, needless to say. Dead was dead, and wether it was thanks to enemy action or not, Stacker would remember every one those who hadn't made it under him.

_ Nicholas O'Brien. _

_I am so sorry, kid. There's better be a form of justice in the next life, because otherwise, there won't be enough dead Covenant in the galaxy for me._

He hoped and prayed that the host of new arrivals that was about to disembark the newly landed Pelican wouldn't be among anyone who'd ended up that way. Or, at least, he wanted it to be that they could outlive him. The UNSC had many veterans of the conflict with the Covenant that'd survived, but as many, if not more, had been killed during it. Those that were left, had more vital responsibility left to perform: mentor and shepard the waves of fresh recruits that were entering the ranks.

They wanted to do their bit for humanity, which was good and commendable in of itself. It was up to men like Stacker to do all they could to give their chances at survival a worthwhile boost. That they didn't have to put themselves in harm's way was the crux of it all, though. The Covenant were take care of. There wasn't the desperate need for more fighters that there'd been even 8 years earlier.

These new kids could've gone into careers that had nothing to do with facing mortal risks. They'd choosen to sign their names to an oath of service anyway.

_To them, I am the old man here._

The Pelican's jets began to spool down, the rumble and roar they were raising dying out, as the back hatch of its troop bay swung open.

It quickly lowered- Stacker always noticed how the D79's doors lowered a lot more silently than the previous Pelican models, like the D77. UNSC engineering had progessed signifigantly over the years, and it showed.

_That might play a role in thier survival odds too._

Needless to say, that wasn't ignoring that the risks were always hovering high. All the scrap metal from all the downed Pelicans that the UNSC had lost could've_ built_ the _Infinity_ herself- and at several miles long, _Infinity_ was a big girl.

The ramp hit the deck. Stacker put his personal thoughts as far back as he could for now; he had others he had to focus on.

A Navy loadmaster was visible on the threshold, one hand on a hold mounted around the mouth of the bay. He glanced back into the depths the hold, and gestured sharply outside,

" Allright-Go, go ! "

From out of the dropship's bay shadows, a full strength squad jogged briskly out. They were all clad in UNSCMC fatigues, with fully packed kit bags held in one hand. Service caps adorned their heads.

" Hurry _up_ ! "

" Asses and elbows ! "

" Waiting on _you_, Petty Officer Italiano ! Why are you always _late_ ?! Was the ride too _crazy hectic_ for ya ?! "

Stacker's gaze methodically worked its way over each of them, as they finsihed clearing the ramp, and formed themselves into a line with the familar martial tune: the stamping rythm of boots on steel plate.

5 of them were men. The other 3 were women. Most of them were Caucasian, while others were not. Stacker couldn't care less, though. It didn't matter wether they were black, white, orange, blue, or fusia, _especially_ seeing as they were fellow soldiers.

_ " Hey, Imma take out the white/ black, latino guy first. ! " Death doesn't care. I don't give a flying f on making a mountain out of what color your skin is- I never have, and that was before I joined up. Understood that camaraderie is the glue of any sucsessful military, as much as discipline. Anyone who gets hung up on " he's white ", etc, is being an idiot._

For the upteenth moment, Stacker mentally cussed out his family's ancestral origins, in the depths of the US South. The racisim had died out there centuries ago, and he knew how pointless it was to think about, but the acidic traces of it could skip a few generations, like lumps of Chernobyl debris on a pond.

_Screw them. These new kids are my family too._

Every marine/soldier/sailor he'd ever fought alongside, or even spent more than a few days with in a barracks or a foxhole, was his family. Even the ones he hated. Even the odd ones: those who were late so often to everything, or the ones who had bizarre fascinations with " classic " things, like cars from the _1960s. _They weird as heck, sure, but they were all kin.

This new Pelican load were the newest members of that kin. Some NCOs cared and loved theirs more than others. Stacker, for one,

Speaking of which, they were now arranged neatly shoulder to shoulder, standing at parade rest and looking at a point that wasn't sqaurely Stacker himself, but close. The presence of a senior NCO like Stacker had been pretty much what they had been expecting, and they'd quickly got into formation.

" Atten-_hut !_ ", Stacker commanded.

They stood as ordered without missing a beat. Each and every one of them.

_Hmm. So, discipline hasn't fallen _completley_ by the wayside, in current training these days. So far, at least._

He subtly inhaled, drawing in air to begin the most cherished of a sergeant's responsibilites: Greeting novices and newbies. He'd been a newbie once, after all.

_They should be grateful they're not being met by a US Marine sergeant. All primal rage; its like putting a paperclip under a plasma beam. That's what it does to their underlings._

Besides, they were not all_ that_ raw. He'd spotted corporal's chevrons on several of them, which was better than receiving a herd of pure-grade PFCs. Even a _slight_ ammount of experience( as much as it took to become a corporal, compared his own lengthy service record ) was better than none.

Stacker had already known the names of every one of them, after having consulted his data-pad. The handy device had been laden with all the collective service records of the entire unit, along with a few addtional details:

_Let's see what and who I've got here_

1\. Petty Officer First Class Jennifer Italiano. MOS: Culinary Specialist. She was the one with glasses, and the look of someone who enjoyed getting up far too early. Virtually no travelling done prior to entering the military, which was rather inexpicable, as someone who doens't travel far has a lot left to learn about the rest of their world.

2\. Petty Officer Second Class Michelle Ridley. MOS: Corpsman. An Australian brunette, from Sydney, home of UNSC high command itself. A strong affinity in PT, particularly in running.

3\. Corporal Karen Lang. MOS: Drone Operator. Another brunette, and a native of Chicago, in the United American States of North America. Family history of public service, including the Chicago Fire Department and PD.

_Dear God. Her sister died on Alpha Halo- Lance Corporal Ava Lang . And now Karen is following in her footsteps ?_

For a few heartbeats, Stacker thought of what that said about Karen. Willing to march into a career that had claimed her own family member's life ? Then again, many of the untold billions slain by the Covenant hadn't asked or wanted to fight eitehr. Even so, this was heading directly _into_ the fight, not waiting for it to come to you.

_That's going to be something we'll have to talk about, for certain._

Without revealing his thoughts, though, Stacker read on through the list:

4\. Lance Corporal Sam Ackles. MOS: Grenadier. A Texan, who had a spotty discipline reccord. A few warnings about him having a temper, but no violent altercations with superiors, at least.

5\. Corporal Dean Jensen. MOS: Scout Sniper. Another Texan. Less of a record of anger issues, but he did have a few reports of attempted theft from a few mess halls. Bizzarely, he was after pie.

6\. Private Leroy Deeks. MOS: EOD specialist. A Canadian. He had actually grown up on Elysium, same Homeworld as the Master Chief. No doubt, that'd made him humble.

7\. Private First Class Martin McGarrett. Hailing from Hawaii. MOS: EOD: Heavy Weapons Specialist. His ancestors had served in the United States Navy SEALs, and he had stated ambitions to join the ODSTs at some point in the future.

8\. Private First Class Gordon Swagger. MOS: Scout Sniper. The only OUTER colonial of the group, hailing from the world of Sedra, he had a profile of not speaking much, except on off- base R and R.

And, that was it.

_So, these are my new kids._

Barely a minute had gone by. They were fresh off the Pelican, standing right here in front of him, waiting with imrpessive discipline for orders. Waiting to be integrated into his unit.

They had to know what that entailed. There was going to be a lot of risk involved- if there wasn't Covenant Splinter factions, there were more Innsurectionist groups. Or Forerunner revivals. Or God knew what ELSE was out there.

Stacker had seen a whole lot of good men and women die. As long as Humanity existed, they would have enemies.

There was nothing he could do to have stopped them from joining. Perhaps it was because they knew staying home was no garuntee of safety, and they wanted to put themselves at risk for the sake of everyone else. Maybe they were all true soldiers at heart, or maybe they all had it running in the family.

_For Karen, I know that's true._

A lump rose in the back of Stacker's throat. These kids were raw as raw could be, but they were here, and that alone told him they were some of the bravest folks he'd ever met. They were willing to serve, and willing to _risk their own_ lives, in a galaxy that was peppered with conflicts and flashpoints of violence. There was plenty of fighting to be had, Covenant or no.

_I am so damn sentimental. _

_Well, sue me. They may work for the UNSC at large, but they're in MY platoon. That's the whole essence of being an NCO- heck, being a leader. Sometimes, I need to remind even myself of that._

_ And if any of us are going to die out there-_

_Let it be me. Let it be me a thousand times before any of them._


	2. Battle makes us even

Forerunner Shield World " Reqiuem "

0900 hours, local clock

Vicinity of local gravity well.

* * *

" Base of fire, standby to shift ! "

Keeping his own stress levels in check as best he could, Stacker issued the order in the way that a commander under attack should: Urgently and firmly, but without letting any trace of fear show. The recipient of that order had get the message- Get what needs to be done _done,_ but nobody's panicking.

Panicking got you, and everyone serving with you, killed. _Especially_ if you were in charge of them.

Stacker was not about to let _that_ happen.

" Yes sir ! ", came the response. The man on the other end sounded terse, but overall calm- which was notable, considering that there were scattered duos of Banshees overhead, making constant strafing runs on the UNSC Cavalry unit still slogging its way down the length of the wide-floored box canyon.

Automatically, Stacker recognized who'd spoken. It was Corporal Jensen, the Texan Grenadier, and one of the recently added members of Stacker's command.

He'd been posted on the right flank, along with fellow Texan Sam Ackles, when Stacker's platoon began its own push along with the general advance, right into the teeth of a Covenant mechanized battaltion. It'd rapidly become a whirling malestrom of literal fire, and a scene of immense chaos, as battles usually are.

" Keep your head down, kid ! Jackals aren't to do much sniping out here, but this is a redzone. "

" Roger that sir. "

_At least he listens. _Adrenaline-laden blood shot through Stacker's veins, his pulse going at several times the normal speed and giving that particular tingling feeling down the back of your spine. The fighting was reaching a fever pitch, in the kind of way where something could go badly wrong.

That wasn't entirely out of the ballpark. The Covenant had plenty of heavy firepower at their disposal: the chillingly familar white-blue firestreaks of Wraith plasma mortars had been filling the sky within seconds of the initial contact. Thankfully, they had no Scarab Mechs on the field, but what they already had was formidable enough. If it wasn't for the UNSC's own tanks being present, along with heavy weapons specialists ( like Jensen ), things would not be going as they were right now.

Speaking of said things, they'd now become caught in some of kind of gluetrap between going well and going badly.

Standing with his head and shoulders up and out of the turret hatch on his M850 Grizzly Main Battle Tank, Stacker was staring right at the point on the field where he needed that base of fire to pivot toward.

About half a mile away, across the heat blasted, grainy sand of the desert biome, a double file of hyperactive grunts ( which was a tad redundant ) had come up over the lip of a rise in the ground. Directly behind them, was a scattering of elites, their cobalt blue armor glinting and glaring unde the desert sunlight. Simmering white blades of their plasma swords glowed in their hands.

_Grunts. Great, more of the banzai aliens. And, some of them have Fuel Rod Cannons_ .

_They're coming in on the right ! That's where- yeah, I have someone there._

" Base of fire ", Stacker ordered, " Shift, _right_ !

Right on cue, the squad that was holding down the right side , hunkered behind a pile of boulders and partially surrounded by clumps of spiky shrubs, began to walk their stream of outgoing fire- most of which was made of up of 40mm grenades and a few Jackhammer rockets- over toward the center of the newly appeared Covenant assault force. Grunts sceamed and shireked- or at least, Stacker knew they had to be- as the explosives pounded into them, the bursts flinging them, and what remained of them, high.

_I owe you pain. For Nicholas._

It was hard to tell if it was the dry heat, or the frenetic situation that was causing that prickly sensation down his spine. Maybe it was that subconcious sense of self preservation.

The Covenant charge faltered, then changed form into a sprawling shootout as the Elites- the ones who _hadn't_ been blasted into red mist- called a halt. Heavy weapons squad had succsessfully stopped the enemy's charge. It was in a swirling maelstrom of searing plasma and lead, but they'd done it.

_God bless those lads. They're aces._

Even with the thunderclaps of detonating plasma mortars making his skull reverberate from the punishing sound waves, Stacker could still hear his own pulse thumping in his ears. Things were going ok.

_" _Sergeant ! Sergeant Stacker ! "

Shouting over his radio earpiece got his attention.

_PO Ridley ! I sent her to the left side-_

Automatically, the sergeant looked over in that direction.

" PO Ridley, say status ! "

The left wasn't as hard pressed as the right; the xenos had mostly light infrantry over there- Skirmishers and a few flocks of drones. They were behaving erratically, as Stacker had often seen the flighty aliens do. Simmering purple and red lines stabbed through the air as the avian Skirmishers fired their Carbines, accompanied by the droplets of plasma from the Drones' pistols.

Scattered fire, but intense and constant where it was. Stacker's squad on the left didn't have as much heavy ordnance as the one on the right, but they did have multiple M77 SAWs, and had brought sandbags with them. All that put together, they might be able to keep holding on long enough to take back the iniative again.

But, the ground was exposed directly ahead of them-

" PO Lang's been, she's been hit, sir- "

" Slow down, Ridley; what happened ? "

Some icewater entered Stacker's veins for a moment when he heard that. At least Ridley didn't sound fearful.

_Don't go the way of your sister, kid._

-Its a leg wound, and its deep. I've bound it up, but she needs a medevac. Can you give us covering fire ? "

_Thank god. Still, doesn't change much: Dammned Xenos. You touch my boys and girls, you're gonna die for it. Don't give a damn what species you are, either.  
_

_"_ Affirmative, Petty Officer. You keep that casualty stable ! I'll vector in a Pelican now, and supress incoming on your 20. "

" Thank you, Sergeant ! Thank you. "

Mentally offering gratitude for the aliens' poor aim ( and the resilence of UNSC body armor ), Stacker promptly swtiched channels, and got on the horn to available UNSC air assets to get one to medevac Lang out. With the execption of the Bashees, the Covenant didn't have much in the way of airpower. The airspace wasn't contested enough to keep the Pelicans away.

" Any dropships on this net, this is Xiphos Actual, calling for immediate medevac on my position- "

Multitasking, Stacker rapidly issued orders to the Grizzly's gunner to pivot the turret left, and put some 125mm shells downrange- along with a hearty dosage of .50 cal machine gun fire as a chaser.

" - On the double, Rome 4-5. _Don't be late._ With a name like that, I'd expect you to be. "

" Gunner ! Traverse left. Targets in boulder field, elevated ground. Fire HESH rounds ! "

Everything happened at once, as the Grizzly's turret pivoted in that direction, and its twin barrels discharged their lethal contents. The din of both guns firing in perfect sync made Stacker's head vibrate on the inside, from the sheer power of the devastating sound waves.

" Good effect on targets ", Stacker examined where they'd hit through his scopes.

Puffs of smoke and kicked up sand rose from the impact area of the Grizzly's guns. Stacker had previously observed the legs of a _Scarab _getting their plating torn off after getting hit by one salvo of the Grizzly's main battery, so a horde of Xeno infrantry had no chance whatsoever.

_There we go. Taken care of like Italy's incomptence WW2 _

This was what battle was about: managing every component of your command, and manuevering them properly to get the most out of them. But, you didn't do it only for the sake of achiving victory: you did it becasue they were _yours, _and right now- in fact, as always- the UNSC needed commadners who could do both of those at once; willingness to push your command against the Covenant/ Innsurectionists, but keeping them alive.

Watching the thunder of the battle raging across the field from the vantage point of his tank, Stacker was struck by an odd sense of feeling calm, despite feeling the stress of not only fighting, but also having troops under his authority. It was an added layer of pressure that was sitting across his shoulders, and actually over all of him, like a coat of lead.

But, it fit him. Because they were counting on him, even as they hugged the coarse, self-filling sand and ducked under skin-scorching enemy plasma. They were facing death, but they were dishing it out right back, and most of all-

_They_ weren't faltering, unlike the Covenant. Wether they did or didn't, though, Stacker would stay with them, obligation as a UNSC NCO as much aside as could be.

_None of us goes home without the others,_ He reflexively reminded himself.

_Win or lose, _I'll _be the last of the field. We are soldiers of the UNSC, and we survive as one._


End file.
